


Aftermath

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Pregnancy, Angst and Humor, F/M, Marriage Proposal, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Clara receive help from an unlikely source as they deal with the consequences of their not-so-last hurrah<br/>[A sequel to Tidal Wave]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The shockwave of another detonation shakes him to the floor. The lights spark out as the room quakes; plaster dust raining from the ceiling.

“Clara,” he says, clicking on his radio. “Are you there? Are you okay?”

A burst of static in response. “Yes,” her voice crackles. Someone shouting, incomprehensible, in the background. “Yes, I’m here and I’m ok. We’re all ok. Did you manage to connect the generator?”

“Yes,” he replies. “You should have power any second now...”

He finds his feet in the dark; tries to get his bearings as he waits for her next transmission. “We’re online,” she says, after what feels like an eternity. “The beacon’s sent.”

“I’m coming back now,” he says. The next bombardment can only be minutes away; he’s not sure the surface buildings will stand another pounding. “Don’t wait for me. Go down deeper.”

“Not a chance,” she laughs.

He grinds his teeth, picking his way through debris as fast as he can.

She is standing, arms folded, in the entrance of the emergency staircase. The other staff and patients have already fled, down concrete steps to sub-basement level. He is absolutely furious to find her waiting; opens his mouth-

“Don’t even start,” she says, brushing some of the powder from his shoulders. “You look like Casper the Ghost.”

“Hurry up,” he snaps. “I don’t know how much time we-”

He is cut off by another explosion; concrete under their feet quivers. He takes hold of her hand and they run. Emergency light casts a greenish glow as they descend.

“Why can’t you just tell the TARDIS to rematerialize here?” she asks.

“The ships in orbit will intercept the signal. They’d take her mid-flight.”

“They can really do that?”

“When she’s on auto-pilot, yes. We’re going to have to find her the old fashioned way.”

“Oh. Good.” They have reached the bottom of the stairs, looking out onto a long corridor cast in yet more concrete. “And what’s stopping them from launching a ground assault?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

The rest of the group is gathered in the gloom around the next corner. She lowers her voice. “I don’t like our odds.”

“No,” he agrees, “We need a better plan.”

“Such as?”

“Still working on it.”

She give his hand a reassuring squeeze; a vote of confidence in the dark. “Okay,” she says loudly. “Are we all here?”

The young medic previously leading their rag-tag bunch of survivors nods assent. “All accounted for.”

“Let’s keep moving east, then,” Clara instructs. “Our ship is near the imaging wing.”

“What makes you think it’ll have survived, love?” This from an aged gentleman in a hover-chair, striped pyjamas flapping around his skinny ankles.

“She’ll be fine,” answers the Doctor, annoyed at the question. “She’s well shielded. Our only problem is getting to her.”

Light flares suddenly in the mouth of a cross tunnel: the unmistakeable blue flash of a trans-mat. “Maybe not our _only_ problem,” says the medic.

“Everybody back!” he orders, tugging Clara out of the line of fire behind him. Her hand finds his as they click off their own torches. He can hear her breathing, short, sharp; controlled.

The click-click of approaching footsteps is audible now. Not a Dalek at least; though it could be one of their fleshy minions. He tightens his grip on his torch, a better weapon than nothing.  

Two androids step out into the service corridor; taller than he is; white plate armour shielding their vulnerable motorised parts. Their skulls are clear plastic, enabling him to see the cogs and wires of their positronic brains.

“Stay where you are,” he calls. “And tell me: who sent you?”

“They’re here with me,” drawls a familiar voice, and a third figure steps out from the penumbra of the tunnel.

“Missy,” he hisses. She looks much the same; a little thinner in the face perhaps. Tired around the eyes.

“Well, who else were you expecting? We need to have a little _chat_ , Doctor.”

Her android minions have moved to flank them. Clara’s fingers tighten around his.

“We do?”

“Yes. Not here, though.”

She raises her hand device, giving him a calculating sort of look. He opens his mouth to protest but it is already too late. The beam of energy strikes him full in the chest and the Universe goes dark for a time.

* * *

_ “Clara!” _

_She shouldn’t be out of her sick-bed yet, of that he’s positive._

_“Don’t fuss,” she warns. “I was too bored to lie there any longer.”_

_“You need rest-”_

_“I really don’t.”_

_“In your condition-”_

_“If you finish that sentence_ you’ll _be the one in need of sick bay. I guarantee.”_

_He opens and closes his mouth a few times, considering his options. “At least sit down?” he suggests._

_She does as he asks, but growls with frustration as she curls into his leather armchair. “You can’t start treating me as if I’m made of glass.”_

_He dances awkwardly from foot to foot. “How are you feeling?”_

_She shrugs. “A bit tired. Otherwise… normal.”_

_“That’s good.” He leans back against the console, confused by her doubtful expression._

_“Is it?”_

_“Why wouldn’t it be?”_

_A deep breath, one that sets his own pulse racing with anxiety. “I dunno. I mean, I’m… pregnant…” With that difficult word negotiated the rest seem to flow more easily. “But I don’t feel any different. Shouldn’t I have known?”_

_He is so far out of his depth the fish have lights on their noses. “I don’t know.” His voice sounds shrill even to his own ears. He coughs, tries again. “I’ve never carried a child. But don’t - your species - sometimes they get caught by… surprise, yes?”_

_“Sometimes,” she says slowly. “And time travel plays merry hob with tracking dates. I just… I suppose… None of this feels_ real _, Doctor. I was dying. That felt real. Now this-”_

_“Doesn’t.” He can understand that at least, still half expecting this brave new world to be a cruel dream. He fiddles with a few switches on the console pointlessly._

_“I mean, what if it just doesn’t work? A human carrying a Time Lord baby?”_

_The fear is palpable in her voice; he hates himself for remaining frozen at the console rather than moving to comfort her. “It’s happened before,” he suggests._

_“You said. Somewhat sparse on the details, though.”_

_“It wasn’t mine,” he adds hurriedly. “It was… a human child conceived on a TARDIS while in the Vortex.”_

_“Not the same situation?”_

_“I suppose not.”_

_Her fingers knot together. “And in terms of… the medical side of things. Monitoring... delivery?”_

_He feels slightly sick; all these things he hasn’t even begun to think about. “I don’t know. She was - the mother I mean - kidnapped and, and…”_

_Old, old guilt, stabbing at his hearts. Clara nods, her suspicions confirmed. “I don’t think I can do this by myself, Doctor.”_

_“I’m… I’m here,” he says. “We’ve got the med-bay and-and the library…” It sounds like grasping at straws, even to him._

_“Do you actually have any medical training?”_

_“Yes,” he says, hurt she has forgotten. “Glasgow-”_

_“Yes, yes,” she rolls her eyes, “but that was two centuries ago. From my perspective.”_

_“Human anatomy hasn’t changed much since then.”_

_“But human medical technology_ has _,” she returns._

_He licks his lips. “I can perform an ultrasonic scan using the TARDIS that’s better than anything twenty-first century Earth technology can achieve.”_

_“And would you know what you were looking at? If it was healthy?”_

_Has she always been able to lay him so bare? “No.”_

_“That’s what I thought.” She looks so downcast, he can no longer help himself. He crosses to her at last, holding out his hand. “Come on, then.”_

_“Where are we going?”_

_“Somewhere that can help.”_


	2. Chapter 2

He opens his eyes to find Missy seated opposite; staring at him with unnerving intensity.

“Clara?” he rasps, and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re so _predictable_ ,” she chides, and inspects her fingernails. His eyes dart, cataloguing new surroundings. Tied to a chair in an old fashioned barroom; her robot envoys a few feet to his left and right. A full glass of whiskey sits on the table between them. Missy sighs. “She’s fine. Probably.”

“Where are we?” he asks.

“What kind of a question is that?”

“One that requires an answer.”

“No, it’s a _boring_ question; that’s what it is. Try again.”

“Missy-”

“I said try again!” she snaps, voice suddenly sharp as a knife. “Or _Claaaara_ might just find herself in a stickier situation than the one she’s already in.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

“Oh!” She bites her thumbnail, with an _aren’t-I-wicked_ kind of expression. “Doctor, just listen to that. Your anger. That protectiveness.” She pretends to fan herself. “Honestly, you’re making me feel quite emotional.”

His questing fingers have found the knot in the rope restraining his hands. He picks at it, considering his next question carefully. “What did you want to talk about?” he tries.

“Better,” she nods, “but still not quite right.”

“Missy-”

“Just think,” she insists. “Be nice, for a change. Let’s chit-chat. Make small talk, like old friends do.”

It’s a _good_ knot, pulled tight, in the wrong place for even his long fingers to twist and worry away. He sighs. “Hello,” he mocks, “Long time no see.” Casts about for other such conversational banalities. “How are you?”

She claps her hands, like he is a pet that has executed a clever trick on command. “Yes!” she enthuses. “That’s better. Knew you’d get there in the end. I’m fine, fine. Wondering when you were going to let me in on the _secret plan_ though.” 

Eyebrows tangle in befuddlement. “What secret plan?”

“Bringing them back,” she says, as if he is simple.

“Who?”

“The Time Lords, silly.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not-I haven’t-”

“Yes, you have. A little bird told me.” Fingers mime a tweeting beak.

He tries again. “Missy, I haven’t-”

“Not the old ones. You’ve decided to bring back our species one itty-bitty _baby_ piece at a time, haven’t you?”

Caught in her gimlet gaze he swallows. “How?” he manages eventually. “How do you know?”

“Oh, Doctor,” she chides, “It’s always the same answer. Because you _cared_. You took her to the best human-hybrid medical centre in the galaxy and they did a few tests. Uploaded the information to their central core for recording purposes. Analytics. Did you really think that would stay confidential?”

He closes his eyes, despairing. “Yes.”

“You’re a fool. Which is why you’re so lucky to have me.”

He opens his eyes again. “What?”

“That’s why I’m here. To offer my help.”

He blinks. “No, sorry. Slipped into a parallel reality there I think. You’re here to _what?_ ”

“Whatever you need, Doctor. Security, perhaps?” She indicates the silent robots. “Forward planning? I for one think I’d make an _excellent_ governess.”

His mouth is hanging open. “You want to _help_?”

She looks genuinely puzzled at his reaction. “Why wouldn’t I want to help? That child is the only hope I have for my species too.”

He digests this for a moment. “No-oo,” he manages, eventually. “I mean… you could have one… too?” Every word seems to come out slightly higher than the last, ending in a strangled squeak.

“Are you offering?”

“No! No. Oh, stop laughing.”

“…Your face…”

“Shut up. Shut up!”

She raises her hands, indicating her surrender. “Okay, okay. Look, I confess, I’m not looking for that sort of heat.”

“What do you mean?”

She makes a noise of disgust. “Honestly, human stupidity is clearly a transmissible disease… You’ve made yourself the biggest target in the galaxy.”

“I’ve _what_?”

“Everyone hates the Time Lords, Doctor. It’s not just the Daleks. They might just tolerate little old you and me knocking about the place, but now you’ve started a _breeding programme-”_

 “Stop!” he snaps, disgusted. “Please just… stop talking.”

“You really didn’t think it through, did you? Castriol was the best medical centre in the galaxy and the Daleks reduced it to a smoking crater within thirty minutes of that DNA test uploading. They will hunt you to the end of the Universe, and they _will_ kill your child. You need me.”

There’s no lie in those eyes that he can see. That’s always his problem though; he believes her right up to the point where she stabs him in the back. “You’d really help me? Keep them safe?”

Missy gives him a hard look. “The incubator’s your problem. But a child of Gallifrey? I’d kill for _so_ much less.”

She nods to one of the robots. Sudden movement makes him flinch, but they are only releasing his bonds.

“I’d have that drink, if I were you Doctor. Then we need to decide what to do next.”

* * *

Clara, it transpires, is merely bound and gagged in the next room. Her eyes are narrow in bitter hate when they enter, trained on his old enemy; older friend.

_Oh this is going to go well,_ he thinks, as he hurries to her side.

She spits out her gag. “What does _she_ want?”

Missy laughs, drunk on her rage. “Oh, hark at the little dog yapping!”

“Shut up,” he says roughly. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Clara replies, “No thanks to her.”

“Oh well, that’s gratitude! I saved your life from the Daleks. Who, by the way, were minutes away from slaughtering you all in that tunnel.”

 “Doctor, we have to go back for the others-”

“Yes,” he agrees, helping her to her feet. “I will.”

For a second she is utterly still. “Just you?”

He nods. “I need you to go with Missy- OUCH!” For Clara has pinched him, hard, on his placatory outstretched hand. “What was _that_ for?”

“Checking you’ve not been replaced by a robot copy!” she hisses. “Doctor – _no_. Have you lost your mind? I’m not going anywhere without you, and I’m _certainly_ not setting foot on her TARDIS.”

“Oh, grow up,” drawls Missy. “I’m not doing it for your sake. It’s not _my_ fault he’s chosen some dragged up primitive to carry that last scion of Gallifrey, is it?”

Clara’s eyes, enormous at the best of times, now seem to fill her face. “Doctor! You told _her-_?”

“No, no, no,” he babbles, suspecting an oncoming slap if he’s not very careful. “She knew already. The Daleks hacked the hospital computer banks. Saw the DNA test results.”

“What, and you just _happen_ to have access to their hack?” Clara snarls.

“Well, duh,” replies Missy. “Of course I do. I’ve been double-agenting them since Skaro.”

Clara shakes her head. “No. She tried to make you _shoot_ me Doctor. I’m sorry-”

Missy growls with frustration, striding over to them. “Oh for goodness sake!” She presses her hand to Clara’s abdomen. In that moment he realises his trust; standing still as a stone, allowing the moment to unfold.

A sharp intake of breath; Clara’s eyes un-focus slightly. Then her fingers curl around the pale wrist of the Time Lady. “If you _ever_ touch me without my permission again,” she says softly, forcing Missy’s hand away, “I’ll cut your hand off.”

“I’d do what she says, if I were you,” he rumbles, and then quails under the weight of their combined stares. “What?”

“Go save those people, Doctor,” Clara orders, stiff with anger. “I’ll see you very soon.” With that, she stalks out of the room, Missy in her wake.

“ _What_?” he repeats, mouth agape.

“I do what she says, if I were you,” mocks Missy, over her departing shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

Tendrils of mist curl around the TARDIS as she lands. He steps out into a proper pea-souper. The streetlights illuminate balls of orange haze; doors and windows and walls mere sketches in the gloom.

He staggers a little, feet slipping on the wet cobbles. He probably should have taken the time to rest and recuperate. At least dress his wounds. But he needs to see her; can’t bear to wait any longer. Stumbles on down the street, squinting at the shadowed doors, trying to see numbers.

A door opens, spilling light out onto the street; a silhouette. “Doctor?” She takes the steps two at a time, at his side before he can get his mouth to work. “Doctor, I _thought_ I heard…” She trails off at the sight of his face. “Doctor!” Her eyes are pools he can drown in; gentle hand on his swollen cheek. “Oh, _Doctor_ ,” she breathes, as if his pain has become hers. “Come inside. Quickly.”

She takes him by the hand; through the yellow portal into a musty hallway, past a row of identical doors. Swiftly to the room at the end. The door clicks shut behind her. It isn’t much to look at – a sink, a bed, a fireplace. He catches sight of his face in the mirror; bruised black eye, bloodied gash down his right cheek. Hair on end. 

“Sit,” she orders, pointing to the bed. There isn’t an alternate option. He folds obediently, the sagging mattress almost consuming him, as she boils a little water in her kettle on the fire. She pours some out, mixes with cold; wets a flannel. He remains still as she tends to his wound, exquisitely gentle. “What the hell have you been doing?” she asks at last.

“Laying a false trail,” he tries to explain. _God_ ; he’s tired. Planting seeds across the galaxies, across the centuries. Sending them all – Daleks and Cybermen, Terileptils, rogue Sensorites and Sycorax, Autons and Angels – all of them, in a hundred different directions. Anywhere but _here_. “Are you cross with me?” There’s something in the line between her brows, the tension of her jaw; at odds with how tenderly she ministers to his face.

“Yes,” she says, putting down the flannel. She bites her lip, but cannot hold back the torrent behind her teeth. “Are you abandoning us here? Because if you _are_ -”

“No,” he says, “ _No_. Not ever.” Another thought strikes him, tongue curling over his teeth as he mulls his words. “You said _us_.” A long way from  _none of this feels real_.

Arms cross defensively. “Yeah, well, Missy changed my perspective on things a bit.”

 “How?” he asks, reaching out slowly to uncurl her fingers from her elbows; take her hands in his.

“When she touched me,” she whispers, clearly uncomfortable reliving the moment. “I felt… the connection.”

“Between-?”

“Between all of you,” she explains, shaking her head. “Like an itch behind the eyeballs. Under your own skin. I don’t understand…” She looks away.

“Understand what?” he asks, eyes narrowing. 

“How you ever left,” she continues eventually. “How you survived without them. The other Time Lords. I-I never realised how you _felt_ to one another. Like candles lit in darkness. I could feel it. An echo of it. There’s enough of _this_ -” she touches a hand to the slightest swell, just perceptible in her midsection- “in me now. To feel it.”

He is crying, he realises. Watering eyes over-spilt. His throat works for a while as he tries to find words. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages.

She shakes her head. “Don’t be. I’ve always known you were lonely, Doctor.” She lets go of his hands, tugging a little self-consciously at the hem of her neat black jumper. “So,” she says, “Why _are_ we here?”

“Missy didn’t explain?”

“Hah, _no_. We went shopping for my new identity; she bought thirty-seven different hats, told me how fat I was going to get, and then disappeared. I found the key to this place in the pocket of the coat she left behind.”

“Ah well,” he blusters, “Probably for the best.” He can _feel_ his old friend close at hand. Watching from afar, perhaps. Benevolently, he hopes.

“So?” she prods.

“London so you’d feel at home,” he states. “1953 because it’s the best compromise I could find in terms of good midwifery and low surveillance technology.”

“What do you mean, low surveillance?”

“No mobile ‘phones and digital cameras,” he explains. “No CCTV and selfie sticks. No computers. No sonograms. There’s a clever fella up in Glasgow right now inventing them, but they won’t make it down here for another twenty years. The structure of DNA won’t be described for a few more weeks. It’ll take them _years_ to get enough evidence to prove it.”

“No evidence we were here?”

He nods. “We know there’s a fair few women with your face that wander the universe.” He ignores her wince at this, ploughing on. “And I’m not the first to wear this one, either. With a bit of luck, a bit of caution… we can be as ghosts. A pair of echoes.”

He was hoping she’d be dazzled at the brilliance of this plan; maybe even kiss him again. He misses her kisses. Hasn’t had one since an awful goodbye in a coffee shop, more than a month ago, from his perspective. Instead she looks aghast. “For how long?” she whispers, thunderstruck.

“Uh, until – until after…” he manages. He isn’t sure after _what_. Hasn’t really considered the logistics of adventuring on the TARDIS with a newborn in tow.  

“Oh, God, I knew she was right.”

“What? Who was right? Missy?”

“She said you hadn’t thought this through.” She buries her face in her hands for a moment, rubbing her temples. “Okay… okay. I guess we just have to… cross each bridge as we come to it.” To his relief she looks up at him again, through her hands. “Do you want something to eat?”

A practical consideration, but a necessary one. “Yes,” he replies, “Actually I would.”

“Come on then.” She stands and slips on a long overcoat. “There’s a chippy round the corner. Best we can do at this hour. Unless the TARDIS-?”

“Best not,” he demurs, standing too, and wincing. “Don’t want too many points of inter-dimensional contact here.”

“Okay,” she says again. “It’s a tanner for a cone, whatever that means.”

“Not a clue.”

“Damn,” she says, ghost of a smile on her face, “I was really hoping you’d be able to sort out the currency.”

* * *

She slips her arm through his as they walk out into the London fog, picking at the crunchy dregs of his fried potato meal. “So, what are our superhero identities then?”

“What _are_ you talking about?”

“Well, I’ve got a ration card in the name of Clara Smith. Pretty unoriginal.”

“I like Smith.”

“Mmm. _Mrs_ C Smith.”

He stiffens. “It’s 1953, Clara. It’s a conservative sort of time.”

“So you thought you’d just marry me off in an act of bureaucratic fraud rather than have an actual adult conversation with me about it?”

“I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention. _Anyway_ ,” he adds, with the air of a man holding the trump card, “technically you _are_ my wife. After that… unfortunate misunderstanding with the Jalencian High Priest on Janos Three.”

“I thought we were never going to mention that ever again?” she harrumphs.

“You bought it up,” he says, radiating innocence.

“God, you’re right. I mean listen to us. It’s like we’ve been married for years already, really, isn’t it?”

He stops, so suddenly her arms pulls against his; spins her round to face him. “Clara Oswald,” he says, “Do you actually _want_ to be married to me?”

“Maybe,” she scowls back, defiant to the last. “So what if I do? Do you?”

“I asked first!”

“And I answered!”

“Well then, yes!”

“Well then, _good_!” she shouts.

In the ringing silence that follows he realises quite what has passed between them. He pulls her roughly against him; for the kiss he’s lost hope of receiving without prompt. “Shut up,” he growls against her teeth, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, stupid old man,” she returns, breathless in between.

There’s a ring he’s worn since Victorian London; after the half-face man and finding himself. In fact it’s two, joined together; a little piece of Gallifreyan history. He tugs off the top layer, studded with a green gem. Takes her hand and adds it to her finger.

“Is this enough?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she nods, voice cracking slightly. Then she grins. “I mean, we did the whole formal ceremony back on Janos Three, after all. Even if we didn’t realise.”

“Good.”

He kisses her thoroughly again, for good measure.

* * *

_They come at the end of clinic, after the chaos is almost over. An odd couple, but not the first of their sort; she imagines their mismatched love was born during the War. Or after. He is curiously tender. She recognises the fear that underlies this gentle support of his young wife; the shadow of loss._

_“Mrs Smith?” she calls, as if anyone else is left in the waiting room. The young woman starts only after a second, clearly not long answering to that name. Her pretty mouth thins as she realises she has to leave him, hunched on the uncomfortable wooden chair, scared and miserable looking. “We won’t be long,” the young midwife reassures, leading her behind the curtains. “There’s no need to be nervous.”_

_Mrs Smith grimaces, clearly still anxious. Her body is tense throughout the examination; for what reason the midwife cannot imagine. She is young and fit, her pregnancy apparently progressing entirely normally. Naegele's rule predicts a late November birthdate._

_“Same as mine,” Mrs Smith says with a smile, the first she has been able to raise._

_“We’ll see you plenty of times before then, not to worry. Everything is free now, you realise, under the NHS?”_

_“Yes, um. Yes, I know.”_

_“Good. And your husband is a Doctor, it says?”_

_“Yes. Not a medical one though. He’s a… a physicist. Of sorts.”_

_“Lovely.” She holds open the curtains for her young patient. “Off you pop then.”_

_She sees, out of the corner of her eye, the way he leaps to his feet._

_“Clara?”_

_“All fine,” replies Mrs Smith, letting him take her arm to walk her back outside. “All normal.”_

Yes _,_ _thinks the midwife;_ an odd couple, alright _._ But there is love there, desperate and deep, and that’s sometimes enough.


End file.
